


Winner Takes All

by Oriberry



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:50:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7776769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriberry/pseuds/Oriberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruby dares Belle to find out Mr Gold's first name which in theory sounds straightforward but in practice...well, the outcome is up for grabs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winner Takes All

Mr Gold is like a trap door spider, Belle muses, always lurking in his lair waiting until some unsuspecting victim crosses his path and then with one snap of his jaws, there’s no escape. 

Belle rather likes this analogy, coming as she does from a country where just about every creature can kill you. “Come into my parlour” she mutters under her breath. Is she the fly? Is she prey? 

Belle has been intrigued by Mr Gold for months now but their interaction to date has been frustratingly limited to a nod and a “Miss French” if he sees her in the street or buying a coffee from Granny’s. To Belle, he’s the most interesting man in Storybrooke, what with his sharp suits, that ebony cane, his lilting accent and a wonderfully aquiline nose. 

He’s also cool, enigmatic and more than a little intimidating. If she’s honest she’s been harbouring a crush for longer than she cares to remember but knows it’s unlikely to go anywhere because someone like him would never be interested in someone like her. 

Mr Gold is also very imposing. He discourages chit chat with a cold “indeed” should anyone be so foolhardy as to try and engage him in conversation and replaces interaction with a sardonic stare or a curled lip of disdain. He clearly holds no interest in the minutiae of small-town life and Belle wonders - not for the first time - what keeps him in a place he evidently holds no affection for.

Belle parks this thought for the time being as she has more pressing things on her mind than Mr Gold’s motivations for residing in a sleepy coastal town. She glances - not for the first time - across the road from the library doorway to the pawn shop and sees movement from inside so the proprietor is clearly at home. She can’t put it off any longer. Not for the first time in her life, she rues getting swept up in drinking games with Ruby. There’s only ever one outcome, only ever one winner because Ruby can down her own body weight in alcohol and remain stone cold sober whereas Belle only has to sniff a glass of wine and she’s anybody’s.

00000

“Bells just quit with the arguing will you? You dared me to go kiss Archie, I did, and now it’s your turn. Fair’s fair, after all. And quite frankly yours is a doddle in comparison to my challenge. I kissed Archie, all you’ve got to do is get Gold’s first name.”

Belle twirls a curl between her thumb and forefinger. “Come on Ruby, how exactly do you think I’m going to do that. Just sashay up to him and ask him? The man can barely look me in the eye if we bump into each other. He clearly can’t stand me.”

“I think you’re underestimating your charms. I see the way he sneaks glances your way when he think nobody is watching.”

Ruby can be very persistent when she wants and Belle is, she has to admit, a little tempted by the dare. She’d love an excuse to engage Mr Gold in conversation and well, his name is a burning topic for discussion amongst the more curious members of the town and she’ll get all the kudos if she unlocks the key to this particular puzzle. Plus it’s not as if she and the landlord are exactly best buddies so even if it goes horribly wrong, what does she really have to lose?

 

00000

“Miss French. What an unexpected pleasure. Is there something I can help you with?” 

Mr Gold is behind the counter, standing as still as a statue, calm and composed as usual, one hand leaning on the display case, watching Belle closely, frowning slightly. 

Belle blinks as her eyes adjust to the gloom of the shop and she starts to take in the thousand objects dotted around the walls. Dust motes dance in the air. It feels as if she has time travelled to another world altogether, that she’s trapped in a Dickensian novel. It’s wonderful.

Belle finds herself momentarily distracted by the first editions on display until a dry cough reminds her of where she is. Be brave, be brave. Belle takes a couple of steps forward until she can see Mr Gold more clearly. He tilts his head to one side, waiting expectantly for her to speak.

The pause draws out into something a little uncomfortable and she decides it’s now or never so she plunges straight in, in her usual forthright manner.

‘I’m sorry to bother you Mr Gold, but well, I have a favour to ask of you.” And she sees a predatory gleam spark in his dark eyes that makes her heart beat just a little faster. He may not be particularly young or strongly built but there is absolutely nothing vulnerable about the man, nothing at all. 

“A favour, Miss French?” and he moves forwards, a shaft of light illuminating his face for a moment. He’s wearing his usual suit of armour - an immaculately tailored suit, a polka dot tie and matching pocket square. As dapper as always. 

“Well then, Dearie, you have my attention although I should warn you that yes, everything you’ve heard about me is true and yes, everything has a price.” His gold tooth glints as he smiles a wolfish smile that never reaches his eyes and he reeks of danger.

Belle hesitates, suddenly feeling vulnerable and Gold seizes the advantage, taking a further step towards her before leaning both hands on his cane. Lucky cane. And where did that thought come from? The pawnbroker watches her with scientific interest as her cheeks flush becomingly. 

“I’m a busy man, Miss French, so please, just tell me what exactly it is you need from me and then perhaps we can come to an arrangement that suits us both.” An arrangement. For some reason those words make Belle’s stomach flutter with nerves. This was a terrible idea and she is going to kill Ruby. Slowly. And painfully. 

Her courage sinking down into her boots, Belle looks longingly towards the door. She inches her way backwards, muttering that it’s nothing important, that he’s busy and she’s busy and that she’ll call back later. She’s reaching out to grab her prize, but she hears Gold sigh just as she’s about to make contact with the door handle. 

“Contrary to local rumour, I don’t bite, Miss French. Satisfy the curiosity of an old man and at least tell me what is it you wanted.”

Belle turns to look at him. He looks faintly amused and Belle makes one of those massive leaps of faith Ruby is always telling her off about. She figures she’s made such a hash of things so far, what more harm can it actually do to lay her favour out for him? The worst that can happen is that he’ll reject her request out of hand and they’ll revert back to nodding politely when they meet on the street. 

“It’s not much really, Mr Gold, I promise. It was a question rather than a favour, really.” She quails a little under Gold’s scrutiny but continues after a pause, “I just want to know what your first name is.” 

Gold’s whole stance stiffens for a moment before an expression of bland interest settles on his face that she recognises as a deliberate mask. With a jolt to her stomach, Belle sees that actually, it is a huge deal to him and this dawning realisation is confirmed with Gold’s response.

“But names hold huge power, Miss French. This is not an insignificant thing you ask of me so I’m afraid I shall certainly need something from you in return.” 

Gold holds Belle’s gaze, waiting for her response, and she mentally starts to flail, searching her mind for a suitable reply but comes up empty. What is it about this man that turns her usually agile brain to mush? When she finally reaches for an answer, it takes both of them aback. 

“Twenty questions.” 

“I beg your pardon? Twenty questions?” He sounds baffled, as indeed, Belle acknowledges, he has every right to. 

“I’ll try and guess your name in twenty goes; if I’m right you have to tell me, if I don’t guess right then that’s the end of it, I’ll never ask anything of you ever again.”

“Yes, thank you Miss French, I am familiar with the concept.”

Mr Gold stares at Belle for a moment, mulling over her offer for so long she starts to squirm uncomfortably, willing him to just put her out of his misery. She’s holding her breath because she genuinely has no idea where he might go with this but the fluttering of a million butterflies in her stomach tells her she’s not averse to finding out.

“Alright Miss French, but we do this on my terms. Dinner, tonight. At my house.” And oh, that was not what she was expecting. His dark gaze is sardonic as he watches her debating her response, daring her to accept if she’s brave enough. 

But like many before he’s rather underestimated the little librarian with the big heart. 

This negotiation has certainly gone in a direction Belle would never have imagined. But well, it’s all rather intriguing. She’s always wanted to see inside the huge pink house on the hill, she bets Mr Gold’s a great cook and knows his wine and Belle would stake Ruby’s life on him behaving like a gentleman. (Is that last point a good thing or not?) 

“You have a deal, Mr Gold,” she chirps. And before he knows what’s happening, Gold’s suddenly in possession of Belle’s phone number and is being asked to ring her now so she can store his safely, they’ve agreed on 7pm, and then, in a whirlwind of floaty skirt and clicky heels, she’s gone, leaving him standing there, dumbfounded and thoroughly outmaneuvered.

00000

“You’ve agreed to what?” Ruby’s voice has gone up an octave in disbelief and Belle winces.

“We’ve agreed on a deal. Twenty questions over dinner tonight, at his, to guess his first name. It’s like something from a fairy tale. Maybe he’s called Rumplestiltskin!”

Ruby goggles at her. Belle, the quiet, prim librarian, has agreed to a night of debauchery (well you can but hope) with the darkest, scariest man in Storybrooke. And judging by the sparkle in Belle’s eye and the way she’s frantically rifling through her wardrobe, it’s something she’s actually looking forward to. 

“What about this?”

“Too sombre and serious, you need something bright and flirty.”

This isn’t a date, Ruby. What about this?”

“You keep telling yourself that. Nah. Go shorter.”

“And tighter.”

“I need to be able to breathe, Rubes. And I don’t want to scare the man to death.”

“Mr Gold? Scared to death. Hardly,” Ruby snorts. “He’s more likely to eat you alive.” Belle swats her friend, and hopes Ruby can’t see the flush that’s colouring her cheeks at the thought of what being eaten alive by Mr Gold might feel like, exactly. 

“Oh behave Rubes.”

Belle holds out a dress, a deep sapphire blue, tight around the bodice and then flaring out just above the knee. The gold threads woven through the skirt catch the light. 

“This?” 

“Perfect.” Ruby rifles through a slew of shoe boxes lying higgledy piggledy at the bottom of the wardrobe before emerging triumphantly bearing a pair of gold strappy sandals with four inch heels. “With these, I promise you, he won’t know what’s hit him.”

00000

 

Belle’s phone chimes.

Miss French. Do you like your steak rare or medium rare?

Mr Gold! I’m Australian. The rarer the better!

Understood. Rare it is.

Should I bring some wine?

Just yourself will suffice, Miss French.

Belle’s feeling brave.

Oscar?

“Nineteen”

I’m sorry?

Nineteen, Dearie. That’s one guess you’ve thrown away. Play carefully, else you’ll be finished by the hors d'oeuvre. And it would be a shame to miss out on the main course.

Humph. I’ll see you at 7pm.

I look forward to it. Until then Miss French.

00000

Belle rings the doorbell and smoothes down her coat, nerves suddenly kicking in. She hears the sound of Gold tapping his way to the front door and carefully fixes a polite smile on her face. And then takes a sharp intake of breath when she gets to see him for the first time. The host for the evening has foregone the three piece suit and is instead wearing a pair of rather snug-fitting dark woollen trousers and a dark blue dress shirt, undone at the neck revealing a tantalising triangle of tempting flesh, that make his brown eyes even darker than usual. She’s never seen him look so undressed and well, hello. It’s a look he should sport more often. 

A small cough and a raised eyebrow rouses Belle from her musings and she realises she’s been staring for just a beat too long before Gold stands to one side and ushers her in. Her gasp as she takes in for the first time the beautiful antiques on display brings a genuine smile to his lips. 

“Miss French. Let me take your coat.” 

And it’s the turn of Gold to stutter a little when he takes in Belle’s attire, his glance skimming down to the hem of her dress and lingering there for a moment or two. 

“You look very...charming this evening,” and Belle smiles inwardly at the urbane man in front of her who suddenly seems unsure of where he should focus his attention. 

Gold finally pulls himself together and ushers her along the hallway and through into what must be the lounge. Belle follows him, eyes darting, trying to take everything in and memorise this so she can tell Ruby all about it tomorrow. It’s all dark wood panels and blood red wallpaper and she loves it. It’s so him, it’s ridiculous. 

His offer of a drink breaks into her thoughts. Belle notes he already has a glass of scotch poured so she nods at the tumbler and asks for the same. He looks surprised at her choice, but proceeds to pour her a small measure and hands it over.

A pause ensues as she sips it, trying her best not to grimace as the burning liquid catches the back of her throat so as not to give her host the satisfaction of knowing he was right, that spirits are not her thing. She catches his eye and sees she’s failed as he tries to tamp down a knowing look but without success. That man sees too much, she thinks. It’s almost as if he can read minds.

Gold clears his throat, clearly deciding to take pity on his guest. “So, Miss French, do you want to open the proceedings or would you prefer to wait until we eat?” She’s about to reply when he suddenly steps towards her and a waft of aftershave assails her nostrils, distracting her for a moment. It’s woody and spicy and…

A polite “Miss French?” brings her rudely to, and she opens her eyes to see her host regarding her with interest. She gives herself a mental shake; she must be coming across like a complete idiot.

“But perhaps, to make sure we’re both clear what’s at stake here, we should establish a few ground rules. First, a reminder that you have nineteen guesses remaining. You do not have to adhere to questions that elicit yes or no answers but if you ask multiple questions within one question, these will be deducted accordingly. Second, you can ask me anything you like and I will be honest with you. Last, but not least, do not try and trick me, it won’t work Miss French and you will suffer a penalty to be decided by me. Am I clear?”

Belle nods, licking her lips which feel very dry all of a sudden. She rather likes Gold when he’s being assertive and confident and she likes, too, how that makes her feel.

“Good. Then uh, leave your drink here and let’s move to the kitchen while I prepare the starter. You can apply your no doubt first rate brain to deciding what you wish to ask of me.” He looks amused as Belle shoots a dark glance his way before replacing her glass on the side table.

Belle thinks sourly that Gold could try just a little harder to keep his sarcasm at bay as she follows him into an immaculate kitchen, all gleaming work surfaces and stainless steel. It’s very much like its owner; sleek and a little cold. 

Belle takes a seat and Gold starts to prepare a salad; nothing fancy, just simple, good quality produce. He’s got good knife skills and Belle appreciates how neatly he chops and slices - he has such slender wrists and long, slim fingers, she thinks to herself, as she reaches out to snaffle a cherry tomato without thinking and yelps in surprise when he slaps her hand making her drop it on the table.

“Miss French, patience please. I haven’t even made the dressing yet” and he wags a finger at her. 

Belle glares at the tomato as if it has personally offended her and then glares at Gold but he’s too busy whipping up a dressing to notice, mixing together mustard and vinegar before whisking in a dab of mustard. He tastes a drop and smiles in satisfaction.

“Now, now we can start” and he pushes the salad bowl towards her. “Please, help yourself.” 

Belle concentrates hard on not dropping any more of the cherry tomatoes onto the spotless table surface and then she settles back in her seat and waits until he too has filled his plate. 

“Red or white, Miss French? I’d recommend red but…” He pauses, allowing Belle time to think but she decides she’s in his hands for the time being at least so she tells him she’ll have what he’s having. He pours her a glass of wine that’s rich and fragrant and she traces a droplet with her finger as it trickles over the brim.

Once they’re both settled, she eyes her opponent for the evening. Time to set things in motion. 

Asking if his name is Gaelic seems to her like an excellent opening gambit and she’s pleased to see that Mr Gold hesitates, and applauds herself for clearly catching him unawares.

“An interesting question, Miss French” and Belle preens herself at his praise. “But no, I’m afraid not. Eighteen.” 

And he conjures up as if by magic a thick creamy-coloured piece of paper that looks like it’d cost a fortune and an equally expensive looking fountain pen. He marks an ‘x’ on the paper with what Belle considers to be an unnecessary flourish.

“Dick.” And now it’s Gold’s turn to choke on his drink.

“I beg your pardon?” If Belle is not much mistaken Gold is looking a little flushed. 

“I meant; is your first name name Dick,” and she smirks, knowing she has him flustered and off-kilter.

“Ah. No, It is not Dick.” And I should deduct you five marks for being...for being...well for being impertinent.” But nothing can wipe the smile from Belle’s face and she senses that deep down he likes the fact she’s not easily cowed. 

“Seventeen.” Now eat your salad, because I’ll need to get started on making the bearnaise sauce if we’re to finish before midnight.”

Belle starts to tuck in, and is pleasantly surprised at how easy a conversationalist Gold is, asking her questions about her time in Australia, her work at the library and any future plans she has to bring in more readers. 

She’s starting to feel quite relaxed in his company and she thinks he feels the same; he’s even gone as far as rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing lightly tanned skin and tendons that flex as he expertly spears a tomato.

Before she knows it both their plates are empty and Gold asks her to help herself to more wine whilst he starts the preparation for the main course. He suggests she step next door and make herself comfortable but Belle has other ideas and asks if she can help before pulling herself up onto the pristine work surface and stroking the marble top. She pretends not to notice that Gold seems somewhat distracted by her proximity to him and takes a sip of her wine, savouring it while she thinks up her next move.

“Jean Paul?”

“I’m sorry, what? Who? No, don’t be ridiculous. Sixteen.”

“Well the French make the best cooks and you look like you know what you’re doing with that knife so Jean-Paul seemed as good a guess as any.”

Gold huffs out a laugh; “Miss French. I assure you that I am Scottish born and bred.” 

Belle’s pleased with her minor victory, she likes the sound of his voice and she likes the way his eyes light up when he’s genuinely amused and wonders if she can push for more information.

“So what made you leave Scotland and move to Maine then?”

“No comment. Fifteen.”

“No, come on, that wasn’t even a question.”

“It sounded like a question to me. Fifteen. And no arguing please, the final decision rests with me.”

Belle huffs. “Well if you’re accepting it as a question then you owe me an answer, as per your rules. And you never break the rules, now do you?”

Gold stops for a second to mock glare at her but - well, she is technically right so….

He sighs and Belle wriggles with excitement when she realises he might be about to offer her some personal tidbits that she can squirrel away for examination later. 

“I see I may have met my match in you Miss French.” He swirls the wine around his glass for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Very well. I left Scotland when I was 25. My mother had just died after a long illness, a serious relationship had come to a less than amicable end and my father was - well, let’s just say we didn’t get on so there was nothing tying me to the place any more and the States felt like it might offer me up some freedom and space to create a new life for myself. I’d qualified as a solicitor in Glasgow and sought a position with a small law firm in Boston and I suppose the rest, as they say, is history.” 

Gold’s voice is deliberately neutral but he’s looking down at the table as if he’s studying something completely fascinating and his hair is falling around his face. Belle notices that his left hand is clenched tightly and he is repetitively rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his other hand together, an indication of perhaps how uncomfortable he’s feeling right now. 

She holds out her now empty glass for a refill and tacitly changes the subject.

“Something smells amazing, are you sure there’s nothing I can help with, a sous-chef for you to boss around?” 

The almost invisible relaxation of his hands shows it’s worked, for the time being at least and he lifts his head to catch her gazing at him. He half smiles at her, so it’s a small victory.

“Well, far be it from me to make a guest slave away in a hot kitchen but if you‘re that keen, perhaps you could season the steak for me. The salt and pepper are in the cupboard to the right of you.” 

Belle slides off the kitchen work surface in search of condiments. Her dress rides up her thighs, exposing her lacy stocking tops (Ruby’s idea, naturally) and she catches Gold licking his lips nervously as he flicks his eyes away from her legs.

Belle smiles to herself before returning to stand just a little too close to her host, keen to test out her theory that he’s not entirely made of ice and steel. It seems not; she can feel the heat radiating off his forearms and damn if that doesn’t make her feel warm all over.

Gold drops the identically sized potatoes into the deep fat fryer and takes the steak, now perfectly seasoned, and places them in a hot frying pan before stirring the sauce. Belle’s mouth is watering.

“You know, I had no idea you were such an amazing cook. Where did you learn?”

“Is that a question or a statement, Miss French?”

“A question I suppose. I’m just curious though.”

Gold hums softly. “I learned from a friend of mine, Jefferson. He and I worked together when I first moved to the US. I was lonely and bored and he invited me over for dinner one night and well, I’ve never seen anyone cook like that before; the kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it but everything he made tasted amazing. It became a regular thing; I’d go round for a meal and each time he’d teach me the basics - sauces, pasta from scratch, that kind of thing.” 

Belle’s loving all these snippets about Gold’s life, she could listen to him talk forever and a day. Unthinkingly she dips her finger into the sauce and tastes it; she looks up to see Gold staring at her unblinkingly. She releases her finger with a pop and Gold’s voice has dropped an octave when he growls “Fourteen.”

Belle smiles, she can’t help it. “Am I allowed to ask you what your speciality dish is or will you deduct another question from me?”

He smirks back at her. “I’ll allow it this time, just to show willing. Well, you’re about to eat it so I hope you like it. Now go into the dining room and I’ll be with you shortly.” 

Belle sashays - she can’t help herself - out of the kitchen and knows he’s watching her every step. It’s incredibly empowering and exciting to know she’s having such an effect on this fascinating, distracting man. She hopes this unexpected attraction is running in both directions.

Ten minutes later and Belle is perusing a book shelf that contains a mixture of classic novels and plays (he’s clearly a Shakespeare fan), some battered hardcover children’s books from the 1950s and 1960s that smack of sentimentality and several legal text books. 

She’s running her finger longingly down the spine of what looks like an early edition of The Turn of the Screw when Gold clears his throat and she jumps guiltily as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. 

“Having fun, Miss French?” 

“I’m sorry, I hope you don’t think I was being rude. But you have some amazing books here. It must have taken you an age to amass such a collection.”

“Oh tis no matter,” he says airily. “Books are meant to be looked at, touched, read. They’re not museum pieces. You can study them later but come, sit, before it gets cold,” and he puts the two plates down on a beautiful antique dining table with a polish so high Belle can see her reflection in it.

Belle waits until Gold starts to eat before attacking the steak. It cuts like butter and she can’t help a tiny groan of pleasure as she chews on the meat. Gold is watching her with something approaching the way a cat might look at a canary but she’s too caught up in what she’s eating to mind. Quite the opposite in fact.

“So, Miss French. Have at it. What’s your next question.”

She knows she needs to be tactical in her probing; for one thing she doesn’t want the evening to be over too quickly; for another she hates to lose.

“Is your name an eponymous title of a famous piece of literature?”

Gold smiles, and it’s a genuine flash of warmth this time. 

“What, like Macbeth, if you’re still thinking along Scottish lines. Or perhaps a Roman tragedy - was it Coriolanus that sprang to mind? Or something more contemporary, perhaps. Harry Potter - although no, I expect you think I’m more like Severus Snape?”

And at that she can’t help but laugh. He’s being ridiculous and she’s loving it. Belle lifts her glass to acknowledge his jest.

“Not exactly, Mr Gold, but I like the way you think.”

“Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, Little Miss Bookworm, but no, I wasn’t named after a literary character. Given my father was just about illiterate and a drunk to boot, I consider myself lucky not to have been named after the local brewery.”

Belle feels heat rise up her face at his teasing of her. He’s not being flirtatious but he’s clearly starting to feel comfortable in her company and that makes her feel - happy. 

“Thirteen. Unlucky for some.” He pauses, as if he’s going to say something else but then asks rather blandly if she’s enjoying the meal. Given she’s practically licked the plate clean she thinks it’s fairly obvious but he’s fishing for compliments and she’s feeling magnanimous.

“It was perfect. Thank you so much, you are a wonderful cook,” and she sees a hint of pleasure flit across his face before he schools it back to his usual default expression of careful neutrality. 

“I’m delighted. Now, do you have room for dessert - it’s raspberry pavlova. Or would you prefer to move on to tea or coffee?”

Belle nods enthusiastically but asks if perhaps they could wait a little while. After all it’s not as if she’s in a rush. Suddenly her phone beeps and she belatedly remembers she’d promised to let Ruby know that all was well and she wasn’t being devoured by the Beast of Maine.

Gold flicks his wrist in the direction of her bag. “Please, feel free to get that. It might be important. I’ll go and find a dessert wine in the meantime so no hurry,” and he rises from the table and disappears from sight. Belle fishes out her phone. Sure enough it’s Ruby.

How’s it going?

Fine. Stop worrying. He’s being charming and we’re just about to move on to dessert.”

A few seconds pass and then her phone rings. Belle rolls her eyes but knows if she doesn’t answer she’ll be pestered for the rest of the night and her host is going to be wondering what on earth is going on.

Belle whispers, “Ruby, what are you doing ringing me?”

“Dessert. Are you mad? He probably means you’re going to be dessert.”

“Ruby, seriously, stop being so dramatic. He’s been a complete gentleman and the perfect host. I never imagined he could be so relaxed.”

“Oh my God. you like him don’t you, like LIKE him.” Belle can hear Ruby snort when she starts to protest her innocence.

“Ruby, for crying out loud, he’s out of my league. He’d never look at someone like me. He’s so suave and well-educated, I’d bore him silly. And I’m too young for him.”

“Don’t sell yourself so short. You’ve read every book there is to be read, and could hold your own with anyone on any terms. If he was bored, you think he’d be enticing you to stay for dessert? You’d already be out the door and you know it.”

“Oh Ruby, I wish. He has this adorable smile when he thinks you’re not watching, and it lights his eyes up so they turn this amazing shade of golden brown like liquid amber. Seriously Rubes, and his hands…” She hears the tap tap tap of Gold making his way back and hisses “got to go” before hanging up and plastering an innocent expression on her face.

“Miss French, I wasn’t sure how you like your dessert wine so I brought up a couple for you to taste,” and he moves over to the table, the bottles catching the light, making the liquid inside glow. He pops the corks and pours a tiny sample of each for Belle to try. The flavours dance on her tongue and she thinks she might just be the teeniest bit drunk. 

“That one” she says and Gold nods in approval and pours a little more into her glass. “Good choice Miss French. Perhaps you could pursue a career as a sommelier,” and she likes the fact that he treats her as an equal, takes her seriously.

They both sip their wine in companionable silence and Belle eyes Gold over the rim of her glass and ponders her host’s demeanour, so different from this morning. Perhaps his behaviour is just an elaborate front to keep people at bay. Nothing he’s done tonight has made her feel unwelcome or uncomfortable. Quite the opposite in fact. She finds herself musing as to whether he might be amenable to letting someone (her) get close to him.

She’s jolted from her reverie when Gold glances at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. It’s getting late. 

“Ready for pavlova?”

Belle indicates that she could perhaps be persuaded and Gold is on his feet, agile like a cat despite the need for a cane, and with an unexpected flourish he twirls off to the kitchen, to return carrying the most ridiculously over-the-top confection she’s ever seen.

“May I?” and Gold serves her a mound of cream and raspberries and meringue and actually laughs when she takes a bite and closes her eyes for a moment in order to savour the flavours.

“Now where we, Little Miss Bibliophile?” We’ve discounted eponymous literary heroes and names of gaelic origin. You’re not doing very well and time is running out. Tick tock. Tick tock.” Gold leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his wine and watches his guest bite on her lower lip as she ponders her next move.

“Alright Mr I’m so Smug Gold” and her opponent for the evening looks just a little bit taken aback by how unawed she is of him. “Let’s step this up a bit. Was your name in the Top 10 most popular boys’ names list last year?”

She chews on some meringue and swirls her tongue around the fork unwilling to miss even a morsel of cream. Gold is silent and she looks up to see him watching her mouth, his expression hungry, and not necessarily for pavlova. Oh. Oh. Maybe this thing is not so one-sided as she’d thought. Testing this theory out, she pops a raspberry in her mouth and brings a finger to her lips to catch a droplet of juice. Oh yes, there is most definitely more than a hint of interest judging by how dark Gold’s eyes have turned.

“Mr Gold. Tick tock. Tick tock.”

He visibly pulls himself together and makes an effort to ponder the question. “No, I can safely say my name has not appeared in the top 10 boy’s names list for a long time, if ever.”

Hmm, Belle muses. So that discounts Oliver, Jamie, Jack, Harry, Alexander, all of which could have been contenders. Shame, she could definitely see him as an Alexander.

“Twelve, Miss I love Lists French. What next?”

“Could your first name also be a surname?”

Gold snorts. “As if. Can you really see me answering to Hudson or Cooper or…” and in his indignation splutters to a halt for a moment before heatedly defending the continued use of traditional names.

“Oh Mr Gold, Mr Gold,” Belle chants in a sing song voice, “I do believe you’ve given me a clue,” and Gold snaps his mouth shut.

“So let’s see. Well there are names that have gone out of fashion from the 60s and 70s. Like Gary. Or Les. Or Trevor.” She rolls the r in Trevor, mimicking his own Scottish burr, and pauses to see if there’s a flicker of anything in those amber eyes of his. Hmm, nothing at all. He’s good, he’s very good. “Brian’s not so popular any more.”

“Eleven.” 

“Oh no hold on right there, Mr Let’s Jump the Gun Gold. Was that a question? No it was not, I was purely musing aloud.” She wags a finger admonishingly at her host who is lounging back in his chair looking incredibly relaxed. His shirt is gaping slightly and she can see a tempting glimpse of chest beneath. Delicious.

“So, none of those names, then. Alright let’s take it back to when you’d have been a child. When would that have been Mr Gold. The 1920s?” Gold glares at her, his mouth remaining tightly shut, but she thinks there a twinkle in his eyes that belies his moody expression.

“In that case what else do we have. There’s Samuel. And Edwin. And Albert.” Still nothing from her host but she thinks she sees him shift slightly in his seat so she decides to throw in a guess to see if she’s on the right track.

“Alright then. Albert. Or Al. Bert?”

“Eleven. And Ten. And - uh - nine, and that’s only because I’m playing nice, Little Miss Social Historian, so don’t even think about arguing the odds with me. If I was abiding by the rules, you’d be putting your coat on by the front door about now. That’s three guesses right there and so we’re now down into single figures. More wine?” 

She mock huffs and then holds her glass out for a refill. She’s having a ball, she realises, she hasn’t had this much fun in an age; she’s missed being teased and challenged, and by a man who is - quite frankly - hot as…”

Gold breaks into her reverie by rising to his feet and gesturing towards the door. “Shall we retire to the lounge?” 

Once next door, Belle eyes up which seat to choose as though sizing up her opponent’s chess pieces; there’s a tactical game afoot and she’s playing to win, even if she’s still not quite sure what the ultimate prize is.

There’s a dark green leather arm chair that looks like it belongs in a gentleman’s club and is by the fire, which is crackling nicely, as well as a beautiful chesterfield sofa that looks very inviting. She chooses the chair and sees a faint look of alarm on her host’s face. Or was it disappointment. She knows intuitively that Gold would have chosen that chair if she’d opted for the sofa and then they’d be stuck like that for the rest of the evening but this way round, she can alway pounce upon her prey at her own convenience.

She watches Gold as he moves over to an antique globe. She wonders what he’s doing before he flips it open to reveal a selection of drinks and she actually claps in glee.

“A digestif Miss French? I can offer you some cognac if you’d rather move on from the dessert wine.” Belle is not a connoisseur of brandies but in for a penny, in for a pound, so she bravely says yes please and then nurses the glass he hands to her.

“Your house is wonderful Mr Gold, it’s like being in a private museum. I would never get bored of exploring - you’ve so many fascinating treasures. When did you first start collecting? And where did you find so many first editions?”

“Eight. And seven.”

Well, that is just mean. But Belle is so comfortable in her chair, with the heat making her feel languid, that she can’t quite muster up the energy to complain. She looks across at Gold, whose face is now all angles and shade because of the fire. He’s looking at a fixed point above the mantelpiece, lost in thought and Belle thinks suddenly how lonely he appears and she wants to snap him out of wherever he is.

“Alright, Mr Gold, if you don’t want to answer that then riddle me this, instead. Does your name begin with a vowel?” And she’s pleased to see him refocus his attention on her although she’s less happy to see he looks pleased with himself. Oh no. 

“I’m afraid you’re wide of the mark again Little Miss Alphabet Street. And you’re down to six, I repeat, six, questions.” He sits back, rolls his brandy around his glass and begins to talk. 

“I bought this house after my divorce,” and Belle’s involuntary jerk of her hand makes her spill some of her drink. She’d assumed he’d moved on past her query so she sits very still, trying not to look too interested.

“It was messy and bitterly fought” and he stops for a moment to look at his guest who is now hanging on his every word. “You may have gathered, Miss French, that I am a difficult man to love.” He smiles so sadly Belle wants to wrap her arms around him.

“Milah, my ex-wife, well she wanted to clean me out but luckily I’d signed over a property in Scotland to my son so it survived the division of spoils and once my son was settled in a place of his own, he signed it back to me.” He sips his drink, collecting his thoughts before continuing. 

“I admit that I wallowed in my misery for far too long until an antiques collector friend of mine ran out of patience, gave me a serious talking to and ended up dragging me on a work trip up the coast to visit some auction houses.” Gold smiles when he sees his guest hanging on his every word.

“I quickly got completely hooked on the thrill of chasing down a bargain and researching what was in or might be coming back into fashion.” Gold waves his hand elegantly in the direction of his collection of fine china. “And I suppose you might say I turned a hobby into a living. It certainly beats being a lawyer, believe me.” 

Belle suddenly decides she’s too far away from him and slides out the chair and pads over to the sofa. A look of alarm flits across Gold’s face as she hoists herself up to sit next to him, tucking her stockinged feet beneath her. He’s completely still and appears to have forgotten how to breathe.

Belle’s eyes are glinting mischievously, knowing how to distract him from his clear internal debate over whether or not to retreat to a comfortable distance. She shifts her feet until they’re resting against his thigh which is pleasingly firm to the touch. Interestingly, though, he doesn’t move away from her, and after a few moments his hand comes to rest on top of her ankle. 

“I know what you’re doing here, Mr Gold. Telling me all this just to try and put me off my stride, but you’ll have to try harder than that if you want to succeed,” and she wiggles her toes, until his hand moves to tighten around them, stilling her.

“Ok then Little Miss Smarty Pants. Game on then. Give me your best shot.” His hand stays where it is and Belle sighs an internal sigh that’s part pleasure, part excitement that he’s not being scared off.

“Bill”

“No. Five”

“Benedict?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous! Do you really think I look like a Benedict? Take pity on my soul Miss French. And by the way, that’s four.”

“A derivative of Robert, be that Bob or Bobby?”

He’s teasing her now. “You’re so cold, so, so cold. Is that really the best you can come up with? And don’t think I didn’t see what you did there, trying to slip in two names. Three. And it’s only because I’m feeling generous that we’re not down to two.” 

Belle doesn’t say anything, concentrating for a moment on the sensation of her foot being gently stroked. She doesn’t think he even knows he’s doing it. And then she slowly turns her face so they are almost nose to nose. Holding his gaze, Belle allows her hand to first rest on his before sliding it up his arm until it’s cupping his cheek.

“Give me a clue, please, Mr Gold, just a tiny hint.” She catches her breath when Gold suddenly rubs his cheek against her hand; it’s warm and she feels the graze of his stubble and closes her eyes. She never wants this moment, this wonderful, magical evening to end. 

“My Little Miss Marple” he says fondly. “Very well. My full name is the stuff of children’s nightmares” and he smiles when Belle wrinkles her nose in thought as she reflects on the possibilities.

“Bamboozled, Miss Oh so well-read Miss French?”

She moves her hand from his face to trace his nose before carding it through his hair; it’s as soft and silky as she imagined. 

“Are you the big bad wolf, Mr Gold? My what big teeth you have.”

He leans into her. “All the better to eat you with, Miss French” and suddenly his mouth is on hers and the rest is warmth and wetness and Belle is being devoured alive and what a way to go.

When they come up for air, Gold’s eyes are blown wide and he’s panting fast like he’s been running. Belle’s hair is falling down around her shoulders and her skirt is ruched up above her thighs. 

He leans in to her and murmurs “Two, Miss French. And don’t test me.” 

Belle says nothing for a moment, mesmerised by how wet his lips are and she leans towards him to suck in a tiny strand of saliva. She can’t really think straight, suddenly overwhelmed by alcohol and lust. All she can do is stare at Gold. He’s so beautiful in this dishevelled state, so thoroughly undone and all they’ve done - so far - is kiss.

She looks at him from beneath her lashes; he’s watching her with something approaching adoration. But as wonderful as their kiss was, instinctively Belle knows how skittish Gold is. She suspects it wouldn’t take much to have him pulling up the shutters and pretending that nothing has happened when they next meet. And that just won’t do. 

Time to put Plan B into practice.

“It’s past my bedtime Mr Gold and we’re not done here.”

Belle brushes her forehead against his, “So, if it’s alright with you, I’ll put my final question on hold. After all, there’s nothing in your rules to prevent a carry over. And if you wish to penalise me, well I’m sure whatever your price is, it’ll be more than acceptable.”

She feels a puff of air against her hair and she knows he’s disappointed but then he pulls away, nods his agreement and holds a hand out to Belle who slides silently and patently reluctantly from the comfort of the sofa and follows him to the front door, where he helps her into her coat.

He pulls her to him and she can feel the steady thud of his heart. Belle slides her hands up until they’re resting against his chest. Heat is radiating from him and he covers her hands with his own.

“It’s nearly midnight, Cinderella, and I don’t want you turning into a pumpkin.” 

She looks up at him in time to catch an oddly intent expression on his face that makes Belle feel all warm inside. He quirks a half smile and murmurs, “Until next time, then, Miss French.” 

She laughs gently and nods her agreement. “I think you can call me Belle,” and her lilting voice is full of promise and hope. He kisses her warmly on the cheek, his lips lingering there for a moment and then Belle’s waving him a fond farewell before turning to make her way home, waving off Gold’s offer of calling a taxi.

It’s a beautiful winter’s night, sharp, clear with a frost sparkling and crunchy underfoot. The walk will help her work off the steak, pavlova and alcohol. Belle makes it halfway down the street before throwing her arms up in the air and spinning round and round in the middle of the street, laughing with glee, not seeing Gold still standing there, bewitched by her. 

It might be end of an odd, wonderful, fascinating evening but she fancies it might be the start of something even better. 

00000

Gold is tinkering with a fob watch in his workshop, nursing a mild hangover, so when the shop bell jangles, he glares viciously at it. That last brandy had been a terrible judgement call.

“Mr Gold, are you there?”

“Well, it is my shop,” Belle hears him mutter and she grins to herself. He doesn’t know it’s her.

She’s chosen her dress with care today, a tightly fitted velvet dress of the mossiest green that was made to be stroked and caressed and fits her in all the right places. And judging by the heat in his eyes when he realises who it is who’s come to disturb him at this hour, it seems her efforts are to be rewarded. 

Gold is staring at her the way a starving dog might eye a bone and she doesn’t think it’s her imagination that he licks his lips and his eyes very quickly drop to her neckline which, if she says so herself, certainly helps to enhance her decolletage. 

“Miss French, I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. Or indeed, so early in the day,” and his voice is all deep and growly and Belle tries to ignore the traitorous belly flops that are making it hard for her to get her breathing under control.

Before nerves get the better of her, Belle produces from behind her back, with a flourish, a beautifully wrapped package and places it on the counter. 

“I wanted to thank you for for last night so I got you a little something,” and Belle nudges it towards him. “Go on, open it, it won’t bite.”

Gold picks the parcel up and studies the wrapping intently, turning it round and round in his hands as if being given a gift is something new and rare for him, and she feels something bubbling up in her that she has to tamp down if she is not to lean over, grab him by his lapels and kiss the living daylights out of him.

“Thank you, Miss French, but there was no need.” He’s still not looking up at her, all his focus is on the present he’s holding.

Belle sighs. 

“Belle.” And now his eyes have locked onto her, hope and embarrassment fighting for dominance. “Remember, I may not know your name but I recall telling you to stop Miss Frenching me.” And there is it, a tiny quirk of the lips and a slight nod of his head.

How can the man be so contrary, one minute dangerous and dark, the next all soft and vulnerable? There are so many layers to him and she cannot wait to start unpeeling them.

She places her hand over his and is pleased that he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he flicks another glance at her, half smiles and then carefully, meticulously peels away the cellotape, slowly revealing the cover of the book. He gasps out loud and Belle bounces on her heels in delight at his complete and utter shock. 

“‘The Miller’s Daughter?’” 

Belle smiles wickedly.

“Belle, you know. You knew….and he stares at her wide eyed, his eyes glowing in the morning light.

“Rule number one of any game, Mr Gold - or should I call you Rumplestiltskin? Never ever underestimate your opponent,” and with that, she winks at the baffled pawnbroker and is gone before he knows it, just the bell merrily tinkling to confirm she was ever there.

Gold stares at the book in his hands and realises he’s been totally outplayed.

 

00000

It’s lunch time and Belle is in Granny’s with Ruby, who is sitting in silence, agog at Belle’s recounting of the previous night, her forgotten burger growing cold, when Belle’s phone rings. She glances at the screen and her heart starts to race when she sees the name that come up.

“I’ve got to take this Rubes, won’t be a second” and Belle hopes her face isn’t as flushed as it feels. It quickly transpires it’s a wasted wish because Ruby crows in delight.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” 

“Let me take this, ok, and don’t eat all my chips before I get back.”

Belle pushes her way to the front door before pressing ‘Answer,” hoping she doesn’t sound as breathless as she feels.

“When did you guess?”

“Well, Rumplestiltskin, that’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“It is now? Why didn’t you say anything last night?”

“Why do you think?”

“Don’t play games with me Miss French”

“Did you just growl at me down the phone?”

Belle! Answer the question.”

“Only if you ask nicely. And I think you know perfectly well why.”

“Clearly I don’t otherwise I wouldn’t be asking, now would I?”

“Alright Mr Bear with a Sore Head Gold.”

“Really, Dearie?”

Belle panics for a moment and then she hears him chuckle and realises with relief that she could probably say anything to him and he’d let her get away with it.

“Rum. May I call you Rum?”

There’s a sigh.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in my asking you not to, is there?”

“None whatsoever” Belle cheerfully replies. “But I have an offer you might be interested in.”

“Indeed?” 

My place tonight, 7pm, for round two of twenty questions and this time because I’m feeling generous, you get to ask.”

“Well that sounds like an offer I can hardly refuse. Deal.”

Belle stares at her phone, barely able to breathe. Are they really doing this. Oh, she hopes so.

“But Miss French, if you ever dare call me Rumple Bumple…”

They both laugh.

And so it begins.


End file.
